Disclaimer: The Hunger Games still isn't mine.

Note: Just a friendly reminder to keep an eye out for allies for your tribute as we go through the reapings, and PM me if you think you see a good fit.

Thank you to afterl0ve and Aileen's Feather for Mars and Ella, respectively.

District Four Reaping
Time Cannot Mend

Mags
Mentor, District Four

The chair felt too large.

Mags sat beside the mayor and Floressa Meverance, still in a bit of a daze. This was real. After eight years of watching Quintellus Yemera – District Four's old mentor – onstage, now it was her. Her job. Her responsibility to keep her tributes – or one of them, at least – alive. To bring them home.

So she smiled, a little. For the cameras. It was all she could do at the moment, but it was something. A confident mentor was something she could give them. Something that could be in their favor, even when the odds weren't. She was here. They were here. So she intended to make the best of it.

After all, making the best of bad situations had gotten her through the Games. Maybe it could help them, too.

Mags was surprised to feel a surge of pride as the mayor read her name – the first victor from District Four. Maybe she should feel guilty, but for what? For being alive? For doing what she had to do? She wasn't proud of killing. But, right or wrong, she was proud of surviving. Maybe there was a difference. Maybe not.

Maybe the world was so upside-down that it didn't matter. Maybe it was better not to try to make sense of it.

Either way, her name was the first on the list. And no matter how many others followed, for better or worse, her name would always be the first.

Floressa rose, beaming, and dipped a hand into the first bowl. Mags clutched the arms of her chair, waiting. Floressa picked a slip, unfolded it, and read, "Ella Halliwell!"

The seventeen-year-old section backed away from a girl with long, golden blonde hair and a bright blue dress. The girl didn't bother to try to hide the look of shock on her face. As Mags watched, shock turned to terror and anger. Tears were flowing down the girl's face as she walked to the stage, but she didn't try to hide them. She held her head high, and, for a moment, her eyes turned to Mags.

Well, eye, at least. Her left eye was hidden beneath her bangs, but her right was a wild, dark brown. Mags tried her best at a reassuring smile, hoping the girl would take a hint and do the same – pretend for the sake of the audience that she wasn't scared out of her wits.

The girl shook her head, still crying as she took the stage. Mags shifted uncomfortably in her seat, not sure what to do. She glanced at Floressa, who seemed a bit flustered, as well. Quietly, Mags reached into her pocket, drew out a handkerchief, and approached the girl.

The girl dried her eyes, brushing the hair away from her left, which Mags could now see was a bright blue. "Thank you," the girl said, but made no apology and no attempt to smile as she turned back to the audience.

Mags took her seat again, trying to reassure herself. She hadn't made such a great impression at her own reaping, tripping on her way to the stage in shoes that had been too big for her. She had recovered. The girl could, too.

Floressa dipped a hand in the other bowl and pulled out a name. "Ri—"

"I volunteer!" came a loud shout from the eighteen-year-old section, and a tall, muscular boy with dirty blonde hair stepped forward. He was tan, and wore a white collared shirt that had been hastily – and somewhat messily – tucked into his grey suit pants. But what Mags noticed first was his scar, running from his left eyebrow, across his nose, to the right side of his mouth.

Mags resisted the urge to turn away. No. No, that wouldn't help. This boy's life was in her hands. She owed it to him to be able to look at him.

He took the stage quietly, his ice blue eyes fierce and cold. "And what's your name?" Floressa asked cheerily, not even bothered that he hadn't let her finish the first boy's name.

"Mars Servitt," the boy answered, his voice strangely empty. Mags hoped her confusion didn't show on her face. Didn't he realize what he'd just volunteered for? He had volunteered before hearing the other boy's name, so he had been planning on volunteering, regardless. But he wasn't eager. Just … absent.

Floressa wasn't fazed. "Shake hands, you two!" she grinned.

Neither looked pleased, but the girl held out her hand. That's when Mags noticed the girl's finger.

Or, rather, that her right hand only had four.

Ella Halliwell
District Four Female

Don't panic.

Don't panic, Ella told herself again. Relax. Breathe. Hold still.

So she held still as her mother slid her hair back away from her eyes and fastened it in a hair clip. Nothing fancy. Just practical. Very much like her mother – a schoolteacher, trying to put on a brave face even though her world was falling apart.

Ella had never bothered trying to put on a brave face. Anyone with sense would be scared. And anyone with sense knew the tributes were scared. And the people without sense … well, who cared what they thought, anyway?

Don't panic.

That was the worst part, knowing that she might lose control. Again. The first time, at work, it had cost her a finger. Her finger had gotten caught in one of her fishing traps. She had been alone. Hadn't known what to do. So fear had taken over, and she'd grabbed a knife and started hacking at the trap. And slipped. And then … well, at least her finger hadn't been trapped any more.

That was years ago, but the thought still terrified her – knowing that it might happen again. That she might not be able to control herself.

Her parents held her close until the Peacekeepers came. Then she was alone. Alone with her fear. Fear that she would panic and do something stupid.

Or worse.

Mars Servitt
District Four Male

It should have been him.

Mars fingered his sister's silver bracelet, which she had worn to her death in the Games. It should have been him. Not her. He should be dead. She should be here.

But they had called her name, instead, four years ago. Heaven Servitt. There was nothing he could do. Boys couldn't volunteer for girls. And if he'd gone into the arena then, he would have died, too.

Maybe that would have been better. They could have died together. But this would have to do.

His parents hadn't come to say goodbye. They had said their goodbyes four years ago, when the girl from District One had stabbed their daughter through the heart. They had retreated. Distant. Barely acknowledging his presence, except to remind him that he shouldn't be here. Shouldn't be alive if she was dead.

Mars ran a finger along his scar, given to him four years ago by his father in a fit of rage and despair. Soon they would get their wish. And he would get his. He would see his sister again. They would be together.

But first, he would have his revenge.

"There is no going back. There are some things that time cannot mend. Some hurts that go too deep, that have taken hold."